


By Fire and Sword: A Ballad of Two Hearts

by KupalaNight



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alpha Shiro (Voltron), Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Fantasy AU, Knight Shiro (Voltron), M/M, Omega Keith (Voltron), Soulmates, Vampires, Werewolf Shiro, Werewolves, With Fire and Sword AU, vampire keith
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-28 20:47:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18213431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KupalaNight/pseuds/KupalaNight
Summary: The quintessence in the air before the Summer of the Galran Uprising foretold revolution before a single blade was even drawn in the name of the Republic of Voltron.





	By Fire and Sword: A Ballad of Two Hearts

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Hunger, Unsated](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12654876) by [tearose11](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tearose11/pseuds/tearose11). 



 

 

 

 

 

> _Back, in one of the lives of a star-sailor_
> 
> _I met him on the banks of a black stream._
> 
> _I was just a wild bird, bred for battle._
> 
> _Then he held me, and I began to dream._
> 
>  
> 
> _Oh star-sailor, fly way far from here._
> 
> _Fly away, from all you hold so dear._
> 
>  
> 
> _Fly and earn your victory in the stars._
> 
> _Far from home, far from your hard-won wars._
> 
>  
> 
> _Oh star-sailor, take my blood and soul._
> 
> _Take the fight in me that keeps me whole._
> 
>  
> 
> _I’ll fly with you, as high as I can go_
> 
> _and leave the desert sand way down below._
> 
>  
> 
> _But star-sailor - even birds can’t pierce the sky._
> 
> _So promise me, when I tell you goodbye:_
> 
>  
> 
> _Fly away, and don’t you dare look back_
> 
> _at some lonely falcon, from a river black._

 

 

The quintessence in the air before the Summer of the Galran Uprising foretold revolution before a single blade was even drawn in the name of the Republic of Voltron.  Not a week before the Solstice, and it was as if someone had cursed the entire land and all of its territories. Snow never ceased falling in the northern region of Altea, which led to quarrels in the Royal Court about how to arrange alms for the peasantry.  Squabbles devolved into outright brawls once the cost of transport was factored in - and above all, the matter of transporting surplus grain over a frozen river. The Master of the Treasury suggested they use donkeys. The nephew of a northern lordling offered to replace the man with his own donkey.  It all went downstream, from there.

Nature’s tantrum impacted nearly every state of the Republic and its citizens.  Ice coating the Northern Sea led to a mass migration of Mer southward, down the Baku river to warmer territories, leading to disputes between water-folk and fishermen.  The elders of the Balmeran monks spent their nights with their eyes on the heavens divining the end of the world from unprompted meteor showers. Meanwhile, elven Olkari alchemists set aside their discoveries to search for ways to deal with swarms of locusts attacking their fields and forests from the wild steppes of Daibazaal.

Ironically enough, the steppes remained the same as ever.  They stretched from the East to the South, unchanging, the barren grasslands and desert rock seeped in no more - nor less - than the usual amount of bloodshed.  Because that was how the land of the Galra simply _was;_ harsh and untamed as its people, its beasts, and those that were both.  The less-inhabited desert land was an arena for skirmishes between warriors, bandits, and rogues only vultures cared about.

It was only fitting that a land red as blood be claimed by blood-drinkers.

Whether or not the Crown would ever admit it, there was convenience in leaving said blood-drinking citizenry to its own devices, so long as disorder remained confined to Galran territory.  Despite every citizen from the five territories supposedly considered equal by law in the eyes of the Crown, Altean nobility only began shifting in their velvet-lined seats when Galran concerns manifested outside of Daibazaal.

Much as they did at the beginning of this story - when Takashi Shirogane, on his journey back home, saw a man about to be staked through the heart.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Dusk was preoccupied with sinking the sun and setting the clouds on fire in an angry, foreboding vermillion.  Shiro and a few of his pack were on horseback, when a faint breeze left the hairs on their forearms standing on end. Heart rates picked up, and the air became thick with tension.  Shiro turned his head to Matt, to already see the younger man was raising an eyebrow in his direction.

_Trouble._

Farther ahead off their path across the grassland, a brown patch of land seemed to rise out of the fields, bounding down from a hill. A human villager would likely not have detected it, but the pack of troops upon squinting through the evening haze could recognize a horse galloping towards them.  As the horse neared, they saw that on its back was a leather saddle with stirrups - but no rider. In the middle of its panic, the horse stilled, noting their scent with flared nostrils.

“That isn’t one of ours,” muttered Matt.

He was right.  Shiro clicked his tongue, beckoning it over.  A tawny stallion, Shiro noticed as he approached him - but something was odd about him.  There was a signature sallow tint to his eyes and the hint of what could be fang when the horse let out an anxious snort.

 _Night-mares_ , they called these horses - male and female, alike. Having been bled by Galran vampires, this one was likely from across the river and unused to their kind, judging by him momentarily confusing the scent of Shiro’s pack with that of actual wolves.

Such horses were neither a common sight, nor a welcome one, in Altea.  The spread of vampirism to other folk through blood transfusion and ritual had been banned for over one hundred years, and while the Galra could not be persecuted for bleeding their own property out of hunger in the desert, seeing a creature affected by the curse was enough to make some pack members grimace.

Below Shiro, Atlas froze, ears trained forward.  “Where is your rider?” the alpha wondered aloud, eying the horse’s saddle.

As if in answer, he took off back towards the hill.

With barely a call out to the rest of the pack, Shiro motioned to Matt, and the pair gave chase.

Once they reached the hill, Shiro and Matt heard the unmistakable sound of a scuffle.  Hissing, grunting, the thump of bodies. The stallion stopped at the crest, and when they climbed to look down, they finally saw the source of his nerves.  About ten shadowed, hooded figures with slitted masks and spindly limbs were reaching out from their cloaks to hold down a writhing body. Several hissed, and Shiro caught sight of the same blood-soaked fangs he had been trying to drive out of his sleep for the past six years.

_Druids._

A noose was thrown over the victim’s thick neck, dragging him to his knees.  One of the druids raised its arm, wooden stake in its clutches -

“Shiro, it’s not our - ”

But Shiro had already lunged, cloth tearing open over muscle and bone.

Unblooded.  Vampires who were not born, but sired.  It was obvious before Shiro’s teeth tore through the ash of their flesh. His canines gnashed bones brittle as petrified wood.

Matt’s wooden arrows pierced through chests and necks every few seconds from atop the hill.  The creatures fell to their knees, clawing at Shiro and their would-be victim.

The true undead.  Mindless things who did not concern themselves with survival so much as acting out their sire’s will.  Bloated on their prey’s blood, they lacked the self-preservation to dodge Shiro’s onslaught. None of them screamed as their masks slipped or their limbs crunched and they crumbled to dust in the sun.

Panting on his hands and knees, Shiro fought through the burn of shrinking bone and muscle as his own limbs cracked and shifted and rearranged themselves in his body.  He raked his nails through dirt. Blood pounded in his ears. As a shadow fell on him from behind, he raised his chin.

The wooden stake lay a stone’s two throws away, abandoned.

“You saved my life,” a deep voice stated, matter-of-fact, “Why?”

For a nearly dead man, the stranger may as well have been musing that it looked like rain.

Shiro heaved, and turned himself over.  The hulking outline he saw above him was blocked by the final rays of the sun, leaving everything dark but for the glint of a blade at his side and a trail of rope.

Shiro mustered through the grit in his teeth the first words that came to mind:

“I don’t like ten on one.”

After a few seconds’ pause, the sabre at the man’s side began to shrink to the size of a dagger.  Raising it to his neck, the man neatly sawed through his own noose. The rope left a violet burn around his neck.

Shiro’s eyes adjusted, as he heaved to his feet without the aid of his hand.  “You are a Blade of Marmora.” he observed, eyeing the sigil on the knife.

The man’s eyes flickered to Shiro’s right, appraising his missing arm.  It lacked the curiosity of a typical village onlooker.

“I am Kolivan.”

Kolivan was white-haired and grizzled, with perhaps twenty-five or thirty years on Shiro, at first glance.  The scar down his right eye to the corner of his mouth was an unspoken tribute to years of fighting.

“Takashi Shirogane, in service to King Alfor,” Shiro replied, gesturing behind him, “This is Matthew Holt, and the rest of my company is on their way.”

No greeting hand was extended.

“I know who you are, Champion.  Which surprises me all the more that you’d come to my aid,” said Kolivan, sounding like there was not a thing in the world that ever surprised him, at all.

Shiro’s jaw clenched under Kolivan’s yellow-eyed scrutiny. “Then you don’t know it was a Blade who saved my life.”

“Captain!”

Hooves were pounding up the hill behind them.  Once his pack had arrived beside Matt and caught sight of the vampire, their unease was palpable.

It was only from a shift in their expressions that Shiro looked down and realized his clothes had been almost completely shredded to bits.

Shiro held back a sigh and looked to Kolivan.  “We were just about to set up camp for the night.  Drink with us.”

Once there was a fire lit under the darkened sky and Shiro had changed, he sat beside Kolivan as the rest passed mead and dried rabbit meat.

Kolivan lifted the flask at his hip, and said frankly, “You have saved my life and offered me hospitality.  I have nothing but my blade. And that, I will not give you.”

“Technically, he has a horse,” whispered Matt to his other side.

At that, Shiro made to shove Matt, and the younger wolf ducked easily away.  “He’s joking. Though if you’re willing to share it, we would appreciate an explanation, Sir.  Honerva died years ago. Who was controlling those druids?”

Kolivan set the flask aside, and swiped the red away from his mouth with a fist.  It left a faint smudge on the rough flesh of his knuckles. After pausing to mull over his answer, he finally said with measured words, “There are rumors, though none have been proven.  Yet.”

“Yet,” Shiro echoed.  The words on his tongue sizzled like poison in a cauldron, “Does Zarkon intend to do anything about this?  Or has he stopped caring about the law?”

Pride would not let him call the Lord of Daibazaal by his formal title.  Not even before a Galran. Not even before the King. Alfor had long since given up reproaching him and now would only sigh dismissively.  Allura hid a smile behind her fingers, every time.

“Has he ever?” grunted the senior Blade, “For all we know, he may be the one behind them.”

Matt whistled, as the rest nodded their heads and murmured lowly at the accusation.

Kolivan rose from his seat, and looked back out towards the empty grassland.  “It is high time I leave. The night has just begun.”

Once Kolivan had settled himself on horseback, Shiro stood to utter well-wishes in parting.

The rider assessed Shiro one last time from atop his stallion under the moon.  He cut the figure of every cryptic foreigner in every mystery ever told through the barren land they traveled.

“Takashi Shirogane.  Whatever you may hear, remember this - I always repay my debts.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

In three days’ time, they stopped in the city of Arus on their return journey to the Castle of Lions.  Both, for Shiro to give his pack members the opportunity to rest and wash - mainly to wash - and to share his newfound concerns with a trusted advisor.

It was acknowledged that elven Olkari blood ran in both lines of the Holt family.  Perhaps that was a factor of their affinity with engineering and the natural sciences - and it certainly explained why the universe let their hungry minds uncover her secrets so willingly.

Though Samuel Holt was not a Lycan pack member, the older man had been the closest figure Shiro had to a father for the past ten years.  Sam mentored Shiro at the Royal Garrison and watched over him as a boy through the death of one grandparent after another. Shiro, in turn, had taken Matt under his wing when the boy was bitten by a feral werewolf, and he later saw to the Holt’s rescue after the three of them were captured and imprisoned as spies on their expedition to the Kerberos Mountains.

The two men exchanged updates over mugs of heated Nunvil in the bustle of the city tavern, while Matt stayed back at the counter, distracted by a pretty barmaid.

The more Shiro heard, the uneasier he grew. “He just left Oriande without an explanation?”  The news that King Alfor was away from the Republic’s capital brought a worried crease to Shiro’s brow. “Did he say for how long?”

“He has left Altea, altogether,” corrected Sam, passing him a scroll with a black lion’s head seal over the wooden tabletop.  Immediately, Shiro placed it between both thighs and sliced neatly through the paper with a table knife.

He skimmed the letter.  In it was a directive written by King Alfor, himself, for Shiro to head East - into Daibazaal - and to meet the King at Central Command.

Central Command was the residence of Lord Zarkon.

“I need to warn him,” said Shiro darkly under his breath, rolling the scroll back and stuffing it into the belt under his outer robe. It would be burnt later, in private.

Shiro’s steel gray eyes darted from one side to another, in the candlelight.  After he ensured no one else was listening, he leaned over the table.

“Druid activity has trickled into Altean borders, sir.  They were unblooded.”

Holt’s face paled.  The light made him faintly resemble a skull, with his open mouth and hollow cheekbones.  “Unblooded Vampire druids? In our side of the Republic?” he asked, “How do you know?”

“I saw them attack a traveler,” answered Shiro lowly, “When I landed on them, they shriveled to ash in the sun.  It was sunset, so their sire likely felt confident they could get the job done without risking the burn.”

There was no denying it.  Evolution had bred such a weakness out of born vampires.  They still were a nocturnal people, with an aversion to sunlight due to frequent headaches and eye strain from exposure, however, it was no longer the harbinger of death from one thousand years ago that their ancestors had feared.

Holt shook his head numbly, staring into his mug. “I was so sure that heinous practice died out after the witch.  Lord Zarkon had agreed to the King outlawing it. I wonder if even he knows.”

Shiro’s lips pulled back into a thin grimace, “The Marmorans do, at least.”

“What do you mean?”

“That traveler we saved.  He was a Blade by the name of Kolivan.”

“You found Kolivan?” gasped the professor.  A drunken few the next table over cocked their heads at them, and Shiro flashed them a quick grin. They waved a sloppy salute and turned back.

Holt’s neatly-trimmed whiskers bristled like needles as he spoke in quiet panic. “The Blade of Marmora are accused of treason.  He has a bounty on his head!”

Another thing to explain to the King.  Shiro groaned, and leaned back in his chair.  He rubbed his hand over the scarred bridge of his nose and his tired eyes.  Only a few months overseas, and the political landscape had shifted like sand through his fingers.

Holt kept speaking: “While you were away, Blades sent a secret message to King Alfor, accusing Zarkon of unspeakable crimes and requesting the King bring him to justice.  Zarkon declared it libel and treason. He ordered all Blades tracked down and slaughtered, and you found their leader. You won’t be welcomed by the Galra.”

“Alfor must have left to pacify Zarkon,” Shiro decided, already assembling a plan in his mind.  “I’ll go alone. We can’t attract attention, and a pack of Lycans on their own in Daibazaal is bound to.  I’ll have Matt take the rest, and go back to the castle with you, to tell Allura.”

“Shiro, that is - ” started Holt, but then he flinched as the tavern door banged open.

A hush fell over both locals and travelers as a towering figure forced its way inside.

Two mismatched eyes glowed at Shiro through the shadows.  One the color of amber, burning like an angry coal, and the other a trademark Galran yellow. From underneath his chainmail sleeves, the vampire’s left arm was clearly shown to be demonic, as well - black and mottled, but swollen to twice its size for twice the power of any natural limb. Shiro knew it well.

A patchwork of hatred, stitched with blood-magic.

The evening was full of unwelcome surprises.

“Champion.”

“Sendak.”

Through the whispers, Sendak strode across to Shiro and Holt.  Floorboards quaked with every heavy footsteps.

“Your company met someone of note, along your travels back to Oriande,” he rumbled.  

Against his better judgement, Shiro felt his mouth twisting in distaste. “And you didn’t even threaten the barmaid for details, this time,” he leveled coldly.

Dimly, Shiro registered that people in the tavern were coming forth to hear their exchange.  Or, more likely, to see what will grow of it. He had to stay calm. The wrong kind of attention would fall on his entire pack, not just himself.  

Sendak’s face purpled in rage. “So it’s true,” he said, “You had the leader of the Marmoran rebels in your filthy paw and did not heed Lord Zarkon’s declaration.”

“I answer to King Alfor, not to the Lord of Daibazaal,” Shiro remained seated, drawing his tankard to his lips.  To spectators, the gesture was made to seem dismissive, but both he and Sendak understood that one wrong move from the alpha vampire and the mug would go hurling across the table and into his face.

Holt swallowed audibly, and finally looked up into the man’s eyes, “Captain Shirogane found Kolivan in Altea, not in Galran lands - ”

“Silence!” Sendak barked, raising his fist and landing it on the table with a crack through the wood. Had it been his cursed arm, the entire thing would have splintered and caved.  “A declaration by any crowned Paladin applies to the entire Republic. I expected dogs to be more faithful.”

A familiar growl came from behind the man.  Matt had a hand on his sword-hilt. Young James Griffin’s eyes darted uncertainty from Kinkade to Leifsdottir to Shiro. They could all sense their Captain’s hardened temper.

Shiro shook his head minutely, summoning decades of self-discipline and forced calm. The only visible signs of tension on his end came from the rigidity in his spine and the vein pulsing in his neck. If he transformed just because he was provoked, then his pack would come to hs aid and the place would end up demolished.  The villagers would dub them barbaric.

“If you’re implying I’m a traitor, you are free to raise your concern with the King,” he answered blandly.

“I was not merely implying, _cur_.”

Gasps all around.  A glass somewhere fell and shattered. Farther back, an onlooker began dry-heaving in a corner.

Shiro felt as if the air itself was trying to cave in on him. He waited one tick, then two, until when he finally spoke, his voice breathed out cool and steady. Not once did he break contact with those eyes. “Sendak.  Even as a slave, I never once listened to the words you said . . . ”

“ . . . and I don’t plan on starting, now.”

He needed to leave while he still had control over his form.  Seemingly unaffected, Shiro drained the rest of his mug and rose from his seat, striding past Sendak. The Galran alpha reeked from his pores to the sour blood on his breath. The scent hit Shiro with so many memories that he barely even registered the smatter of clapping and approving nods sent his way.

Until he heard a shout from Matt:

_“HEY!”_

But it was not directed at Shiro.  He turned his head to see Sendak backing Samuel Holt into a pillar.  Leonine fangs protruded from his teeth, dripping.

“Out of you two, I always wondered who’s the dog, with the fear I smelled on you.”

The whoosh of blood between his ears rained louder than a waterfall.

Before the Galra could lean in, Shiro was already between them, the hilt of his sword extended just under Sendak’s whiskers.

“Smell this,” the wolf grit through his teeth, “ - before you ever disrespect one of my people, again.”

Sendak jerked back as if burnt, snarling with fangs extended.  His split-second’s hesitation to bite in front of witnesses was all Shiro needed to let go of his sword’s handle and dive forward. As Sendak reached for his own pommel with his right hand, Shiro feinted, and sprung for the other.  Shiro grabbed Sendak’s demonic arm, and twisted. The pop in the vampire’s shoulder made him howl with rage. One blow from Shiro’s leg, and Sendak’s sword clattered to the ground.

_“Two alphas at it!”_

_“Clear the tables!”_

For the moment, they were both one-armed.  Instead of jumping back to avoid the swipes of Sendak’s claws, Shiro held tight.  With an arm wrapped around the hulking vampire, he heaved him over his back. The exertion made his own bones grow and his canines drop.

With the very last of his strength, he launched the Galra forward, through the tavern doors.

As the doors swung open, the last Shiro saw of Sendak was his body landing face-first into the mud.

Shiro’s ears flooded with the cheers of the tavern.  Before his knees buckled under him, Matt was already there to guide him to a seat.  It was even more difficult for a werewolf to hold back from a turn once the change started, than to keep himself from turning, in the first place.

Shiro reached for the silk under his robe to wipe at his face.  Hands and fists thumped him amicably on the back, and the smell of something warm and fresh wafted to his nose.  A rack of lamb had been pushed towards him.

“Thank you,” he grinned tiredly up at the cook who set it on the table. “Really.  But I’d rather it go to the gentleman . . . ”

He was a large young man with a sincere face and warm eyes. “The Professor?” he asked, his chin tilting towards the two Holts across the room.  They were laughing together over their meal, surrounded by the rest of the pack, “Gave him one, too, only a little more cooked.”

“That was - you were like - ” another, more strained voice interrupted, and a second boy popped up around the cook to jostle him aside.  He was rail-thin and buzzing with excitement. “No offense, but how’s that possible? It’s _Sendak_.”

Shiro smiled wryly, “Because we couldn’t fight to kill, this time.”  Had there been no witnesses, or had they fought in Daibazaal, Sendak would not have hesitated to use the venom in his fangs or the curse in his arm. Under the circumstances, however, he would have been severely punished for using blood magic on a high-ranking Garrison officer.

The lanky one with the narrow features introduced himself as Lance and his companion as Hunk.  They recognized Shiro from the moment Sendak addressed him, since both were members of the Royal Garrison.  Hunk was assigned to food service at the tavern, and Lance to the city watchtower. A waste of his talents, mourned Lance, as he dubbed himself an “expert sharpshooter” with a pat to the flintlock pistol on his hip.

 _“Sharpshooter?”_ someone yelled from the back, _“You were trained to man the cannon of a cargo ship!”_

_“My auntie’s blind and she could manage that!”_

Apparently, that was an affront to Lance’s delicate sense of honor.  Before anyone could stop him, he had his pistol out and was shoving powder down the muzzle.

A thick candle was lit and perched on a stool across the tavern, several yards from the fireplace.

Bets were placed.  “You want to hit that?” called Griffin doubtfully from his seat.

“Nope!” Lance’s grin widened, as if he could not be prouder that his entire self-worth was loaded in the aim of one bullet, “I’m gonna put it out - in one.  Shot!”

Bets were amended.

Hunk groaned.

Lance pulled the trigger.

Paused.

Waited.

Pulled the trigger again.

Nothing.

The wait itself was more painful than a bullet.  Shiro cleared his throat, “I always found shorter firearms unreliable - ”

“Not for me, they’re not!” scowling, Lance slapped the barrel with his palm several times, and tilted it up.  Just as he made to lift it to his face -

_Bang!_

The makeshift chandelier fell from the ceiling.

Lance’s bullet had severed the iron chain from which it hanged, scattering its wax contents.  It clattered to the floor - in a perfect circle around the stool with the candle.

The gust of wind it made had extinguished the flame on the wick.

”Well,” said Matt, “He did put it out.”

The tavern roared with laughter.

Red in the face, Lance wheeled around to face Shiro with wide eyes, “I know I can’t be a pack member - but they’ve got us stationed here at these junior posts cooking and cleaning and patrolling the streets  when I _know_ I could be doing more to serve.  Do you think I could join you, when you leave?”

The werewolf folded his arms, holding back his laughter. “With that kind of brass?  I don’t see why not.” Shiro then looked to Hunk, “How about yourself?”

Hunk anxiously wiped his hands on his apron. For someone his size, he did not hold himself with confidence. “I’m just a Garrison barber-surgeon.  I mean, I cook, too. Obviously - I don’t know why I just said that, after - anyway, I’m also good with my hands. You know. For smithing. And repairs.”

“Good with his hands!” beamed Lance, elbowing his friend. “He’s the best engineer I’ve met since Gunderson!”

“Since . . . Pidge Gunderson?” asked Shiro.  He and Matt shared a knowing look.

Lance nodded, clearly not in the least surprised how high his former teammate’s name had spread. “The one and only.  Wonder where he ended up.”

“Well, gee,” Matt snickered, elbowing his Captain.  “I don’t know if anyone can come close to this _Pidge Gunderson_ guy, but Shiro - what do you think?”

Shiro did nothing but smile. “I think that’s certainly something.  Matt and the others are heading to the Castle, to report our last mission to the Princess.  I have business East.”

“To the Princess?” asked Lance, perking up.

Hunk clasped Lance by the shoulder. “ - Nope. _Nuh-uh._  We’d gladly head your way. _Away_ from the Castle.”

Lance shrugged his arm off his boney shoulder and sniffed indignantly. “Ignore him.  He’s just embarrassed that last time I was in the Castle, I got to make a public vow,”

 _“ - of chastity!”_ objected Hunk, “That was his way of saying goodbye to Princess Allura.  The Princess Allura. He dropped to one knee and swore a vow of chastity.”

Lance protested, “I want a chance to be a suitor!  How else is a guy in love supposed to get someone like her to take him seriously?”

Hunk sighed, and dropped his head in a hand. Shiro got the distinct impression that they’ve been over this countless times.

“I can think of so many ways.”

“Says the monk!” cried Lance.

Shiro took that as a chance to politely sidestep the topic, the way he often did with horse dung, “the monk?”

“Not a monk, technically,” explained Hunk, “More of a monk-in-training.  A mentee. My family sent me to join the Balmeran order, before I got shipped off to the Garrison,” then he paused, and added thoughtfully:

“A monk-ee.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The three parted ways with Matt and the rest of Shiro’s pack, and set out at dawn accompanied this time by a much smaller group.

They crossed the Baku river that ran through the Republic, dividing Altea and Daibazaal. Once in Galran territory, they followed one of the few above-ground natural bodies of water in Daibazaal - an ephemeral stream branching off of the Baku. It was wide, clear, and still, though by the end of the summer, it would dry almost to the bottom of the bed.

The stream was dotted with crude hamlets and cruder people, nomadic by nature and used to seeing travelers. The land there was still fertile enough for limited irrigation, though that was all the same to a majority population who mostly lived off the blood of animals. Only after a week’s journey away from the stream would the grass of the steppes turn to dirt, rock, and sand, without a drop of water in sight until the oasis at Central Command.

The terrain made Daibazaal absolutely unconquerable.  Only the Galra were able to make a home out of such an inhospitable place.

“ - You know as well as me and Hunk that it’s a rough start for islanders on the mainland. If it wasn’t for the Garrison, I’d have probably turned to thieving, by now.”

“And the princess?” asked Shiro, chuckling, “what did she say to a vow like that?”

“She laughed,” Lance wavered, “Do you . . . know if that’s a good thing?”

There was something genuine in the doubt across Lance’s face. He also noticed Hunk tactfully slowing down his horse, to avoid the conversation. “For her?  Certainly. Royals don’t get the chance to laugh often. And Allura wouldn’t laugh just for show.”

Lance contemplated that for a dobosh, until he blew a raspberry and slumped, defeated.  “Only the Defender knows my struggle. Don’t get me wrong, she’s probably already forgotten me.  But at least as a soldier, I’ll get to make a name for myself, with my missions. It’ll do some good for the family.  I’ve got a whole bunch of nieces and . . . nephews . . .”

There was a body on the road.  A body with an arrow protruding from its chest.

Shiro slowed Atlas, and stared farther up the path.  The dirt had tracks in it that showed signs of a fight - one that had ended in blood.  He spotted wheel imprints leading off the road and towards the nearby stream.

Raising a finger, Shiro silently directed they follow the remains.  Once they did, a few steps later, a strange site met the travelers as they looked down over rock, into the stream.

For by the side of the water, a caleche sat tilted into the bank with a wheel fallen off its axle.  Two horses were detached from it and held by a servant, while a tall nobleman with traditional Galran white hair under his hood was knee-deep to his silks in the stream, occupied with heaving the wagon up with his bare hands.

As they approached hesitantly, the Galran noble managed to prop the wagon up by its wheel.  He then caught the slumped body of its dead driver, threw it over his shoulder, and waded to shore to dump it onto the bank.

He straightened, dusted down his front, and finally pulled down his hood to look up in a cursory glance and address them.

“Ah,” he said, “Soldiers.”

Shiro heard a noise behind him that vaguely sounded like Lance choking on his own spit.

Before them, somehow regal despite being sopping wet and caked with blood, stood Lord Lotor, son of Zarkon and Honerva, first in line to Daibazaal.

“Move the dead away from the water!” snapped Lotor to his servant, “We can’t have them bleeding into the stream.”

It was illegal anywhere in the Republic of Voltron for vampire blood to contaminate public bodies of water.  Rivers and streams with cursed blood running through their waters posed a risk to the people and beasts who drank from them.

“Any way we can help?” asked Shiro, cautious, as if he wished his own morals would not have forced the offer out of him.

“No need,” shrugged Lotor, apparently not minding the lack of a title, “I’ll have one of my own clean this mess up and handle my driver’s body.”

Shiro stared at the armed bodies by the side of the road.  They were dressed alike, in Marmoran uniform. Those that still had a head connected to their shoulders were hooded and masked. “And the rest?”

Lotor waved off the question dismissively. “The rest are bandits.  They fell upon my carriage, and paid for it, accordingly. The few that escaped are being dealt with, as we speak.”

The Lord strode over, square-shouldered to Shiro’s place on Atlas.  Shiro felt the horse tense under his thighs. Seemingly without a moment’s hesitation, Lotor raised his left hand.  “Captain Shirogane, of His Royal Majesty, King Alfor’s Garrison,” he stated, “ - I assume.”

Taken aback, Shiro paused momentarily, and then dismounted from Atlas to extend his arm in acceptance of  the greeting. “Your Excellency.”

Shiro had seen the Lord’s face, more than once, at the Royal Court - but never did he expect to be recognized, himself.

“Bandits, huh?” called Lance doubtfully, “so you sent out your soldiers and hung back to mind the carriage?”

“I have a trunk of rather precious cargo,” answered Lotor, “I was guarding it in case others came while my people were tracking the runaways.”

Lance’s face puckered, in what he perhaps thought to be suspicion, but really came across as if the boy had just downed a shot of straight nunvil, “What’s in there you want to protect, so much?”

“My mother’s ashes.”

Poor Hunk looked as if he was about to get sick, or fall off his horse.

“You called them bandits, but they’re clearly Blades,” observed Shiro, stepping closer to inspect a body, “they just attacked you on your travels, for no reason?”

Lotor smirked, “I see you’ve been overseas a while, Captain.  Allow me to enlighten you - The Marmora have been formally disbanded.  All former Blade members who do not turn themselves in are wanted for treason, due to having publicly declared their wish to overthrow Lord Zarkon and conquer Daibazaal.”

Just as Shiro was figuring how to best point out that his question had not been answered, the ground began to shake under his feet.  Rocks skittered, Atlas shifted nervously, and the sound of hooves came pounding closer and closer.

There, from the road, an enormous mass of red dust came billowing towards them.  It grew, until they heard frantic cries and whoops down the road - calls so wild they could have only belonged to the berserk.  Shiro reached for his sword-hilt, but Lotor’s low chuckle stilled his fingers.

“ - like a falcon from its hunt.”

And that was the very moment which had Shiro re-considering Faith, itself, for the first time in his life, despite all he had lived through.

Because from that red cloud of smoke and dust emerged a God of War.

At least, that is how it seemed to Shiro.  A dark male figure materialized from the scarlet plumes.  This boy - this man? - this _vampire_ , Shiro realized -  cut the most strikingly fiersome image he had ever laid eyes on.  And he was coming closer, riding towards Shiro at full gallop on a blood bay warhorse.  Large, startled eyes flashed through hair black as midnight, strands whipping in his pale blood-splattered face and along his sharp-set jaw.  The man scowled down at Shiro, rearing back on his horse so close, Shiro might have reached out and touched hooves.

Another cloud lifted when the horse dropped its feet back down, into the dirt of the road.

Shiro did not so much as blink.

Dimly, he realized that the young man was not alone, and behind him was the group that had been making the racket - a band of four women, laughing and hollering in a frenzy.

“My Lord,” hailed the largest of the group, “The rebels are dead. Keith chased down the messengers before we even reached ‘em.”

“Messengers?” Shiro eyed Lotor, “Envoys are sacred, by law.”

“Not if their master isn’t legitimate,” retorted the Lord, “Besides - Keith?  How many men does it take to deliver a message?”

The young man’s gaze was a deep blue-violet, mercifully draped by a matted swath of black hair.  His slim chest was heaving, and he was covered in blood from his furs and sash, down to his leather boots.  Not taking his eyes off Shiro, he ran a tongue over the dust coating his thin lips.

“None,” answered the warrior, in a rasp like smoke, “for _that_ kind of message.”

_Keith._

_Keith Kogane - the Galran warrior._

“There you have it,” nodded Lotor, satisfied.  Every smile of this vampire’s made Shiro’s spine grow colder.

Once the horses were hooked to the caleche, the Lord boarded in the driver’s place.  Just as he was ready to direct the steeds and lead the group’s crossing of the stream, he paused - and rolled his eyes.

“Not this production.”

Keith was on the ground, standing before his own horse and running a worried hand down her muzzle.  The red mare was so exhausted from the chase, she practically foamed at the mouth. Her stare was nervous out at the water.

She feared crossing the stream.

To cajole her, Keith mumbled soothingly into her ear, ignoring all of their impatient onlookers.  He then unclasped his own fur cloak and - impossibly - kneeled in the dirt, and began to wipe the blood off her hooves.

Shiro heard talk about the savage young omega warlord who spent his life tearing through the steppes like a deadly grassfire.  Some called him a hero, others called him a demon. Some held him to be insane - an unbridled, mad spirit of fire and lightning. What Keith Kogane lived for, where he was headed, nobody knew - least of all, him.  The only common agreement among the rumors was that this was a man who answered to no one and nothing, except perhaps the battle-drum.

And yet there he was, drying the sweat off his horse’s brow with his own silks.

Lotor cleared his throat pointedly.

Keith turned his head, the corners of his mouth drawn down.  He looked somehow both indignant and pleading. “She’s tired. I’ll catch up with you, later.”

“Nonsense,” stated Lotor haughtily, “If you won’t whip her into moving, then leave her behind and make the leap on your own.  You know she’ll come running. In the meantime, I can’t watch this.”

He pulled the reins and left with his guard in tow, the wheels of the carriage steadily churning through the water.  Not one of the others looked back.

Shiro’s own group had their eyes on him, for directions.  “Go ahead,” he called out to them. “We’ll be along, soon.”

It took them a moment to realize by _we_ , Shiro meant himself and the vampire.

Keith’s mare watched the company depart.  The look in her eyes was almost uncertain as her rider’s as she gazed from the stream to Atlas, who was faithfully standing watch by her alpha Captain.

The young vampire said nothing.  Just raised his eyebrow as he surveyed Shiro.

Shiro let him alone, and walked slowly over to appraise the mare.  She was lithe in frame and built for speed. Nothing at all like Atlas’s massive silver form.

“Still young, huh?” asked Shiro conversationally, “What’s her name?”

“Red,” said Keith.  He was guarded, braced for something.  Silently daring Shiro to speak a word against it.

 _Red_.

“Red,” he echoed, gaze slowly turning to fully meet Keith’s.  “I’m Shiro,” Those deep midnight orbs stared back curiously. Wordlessly.

Until the boy finally had enough, and hid his face in the horses mane in favor of stroking his hand down her crest.  Shiro could not decide who he was trying to comfort - the horse, or himself. But Red’s eyes were trained on Atlas, glinting challengingly.

Well.  Though Keith had enough of Shiro, at least his mare showed interest in his own horse -

“I have an idea,” voiced Shiro thoughtfully.

Without allowing himself a second thought, Shiro turned around and extended his hand over to Atlas.  He gave two firm pats to her silver flank, and said “Go, girl.”

They watched her move, muscles rolling under her glossy coat.  The horse waded into water up to her forearms, almost smug in front of Keith’s mare.  The picture of obedience.

And then - exactly as he predicted.

Red left Keith’s arms to dash after the larger horse, eager in her effort to be first.  Red plowed through the stream, and when the two finally crossed to the other side, she flicked her sopping tail in Atlas’s face.

Atlas, though twice her new companion’s size, didn’t seem to mind neither the tail nor losing.

Stifling laughter, Shiro faced Keith - only to realize his mistake.  The boy stared in disbelief on the edge of the water, after the two mares.  After a tick, he folded his arms exasperatedly, brows furrowed with heated accusation.  He gestured down at the enemy blood staining his boots and linen trousers.

“That’s great and all, but now I can’t cross without - ”

“ - please,” said Shiro, advancing towards him, "Allow me.”

Keith blinked.  “What?”

Throwing his self preservation somewhere out at the path behind them, Shiro lowered himself watching Keith’s eyes widen and widen, until Shiro wrapped his arm down behind the other’s thighs and hefted him up. Gloved hands scrambled to grip his mail-clad shoulders, his neck, not knowing what to do with themselves.

Shiro braced himself to get yelled at, perhaps even a swipe or a fist over the head.

Nothing came.  

He dared himself to look up.

Truly, Shiro made his best effort to ignore the salt-sweet smell, the sun-warmed neck.  He focused up, and saw chapped lips parted in shock. Keith was stunned. Too stunned to protest as the Lycan’s boots sank into the water.

Praying Keith would last just a bit longer without coming to his senses, Shiro walked on.

Time slowed.  Every footstep Shiro took dragged the ticks by ever slowly, as Shiro was flooded with the scent of the omega, the weight of him against his chest.  Keith was heavier than he looked, for someone slim and unburdened by the same coat of mail and padding as Shiro wore, himself.

The only saving grace for them both was that Keith refused to look him in the eye. The woung man just gritted his teeth and ducked his chin away.  “I could’ve made the jump,” he muttered, readjusting himself as the water level reached Shiro’s knees.

Shiro watched the boy’s face carefully through gunmetal eyes. Through the ink-black hair, Shiro could see every stray fleck of blood on the high cheekbones, the pointed jaw.  If his hand was not occupied, he would have needed to stop himself from wiping them off with the pad of his thumb and tracing that rose blush.

Instead, he hummed in agreement.  “Of course you could have. You’re Keith Kogane.  Keith of the Desert. They sing songs about you and the things you’ve done.”

Keith bristled, hands around Shiro’s neck subconsciously balling into fists.  He darted hs gaze down at Shiro in a glare, but there was something numb behind it.  Something resigned.

“What do you know ‘bout the things I’ve done?”

Stepping back onto solid land, Shiro kept his eyes trained to Keith’s. Grey locked on blue as surely as the moon circled the world. “I know they were brave.”

Without another word, Shiro bowed his head in deference and lowered Keith back onto land.

He then turned to face his audience. Lance’s jaw was hanging open, Hunk looked for some reason almost apologetic, and one of Lotor’s troops was giggling into the shoulder of the larger woman.

“At last,” said Lotor, amicably enough and not appearing to pay neither the display nor the reaction any mind.  “If you’d escort us home, gentlemen, we have a warm place to stay for the night with food and drink.”

To Shiro’s left, Keith blurted hotly: “We don’t need an es-“

“Keith.”

Keith fell silent at the look Lotor cut him, and that was that.  After another moment, they were all back on their horses, and Lotor behind the reins of the caleche.

Shiro and Keith rode side-by-side. Purely coincidental, from Shiro’s part of course.  Every time his gaze happened to fall briefly on Keith, the younger man seemed to be deep in thought, staring quietly ahead.

Then Lance rode ahead to Keith’s left, boxing the vampire in between him and Shiro.  Making a show of ignoring Keith, he looked over to Shiro, on the other side of the path. “Thought he’d be taller.”

Keith snorted.  Shiro gave Lance a reproachful look.

“What?” asked the boy, shrugging “There’s no way the rumors are true.  Are you sure he’s even Galra?”

“Lance,” Shiro interjected, in warning.  He felt he was watching a field-mouse trying to pick a fight with a wolf, or a raptor.

Disregarding Shiro’s tone, Lance finally acknowledged Keith.  “Alright, ‘fess up. What are you, really?”

“You mean, besides annoyed?” said Keith cuttingly.

“No!” grinned Lance, “besides a leech with a chicken for a horse - ”

The dig at Keith’s horse was too far an overstep. Before Shiro could order Lance to step off, Keith jerked on Red’s left rein, hissed out a command, and the mare struck out to bite the startled rider next to her. Ol’ Blue shrieked, and rushed forward as Lance nearly fell off the saddle, with a squawk.  Ahead, Shiro could see that Red had tore a hole in his pants.

“Kogane!” barked Lotor over his shoulder, “Have you lost your mind?  Off with you!”

Keith raced forward, leaving them behind without a word.

Lance fretted over the torn fabric of his trousers.  “He IS crazy!”

Ahead, Keith’s hand was running protectively through Red’s mane, in praise.

“Completely unhinged, at times, I’m afraid,” sighed Lotor regretfully, “But he’s a remarkable swordsman, and he’s served our family well.  He’s like a . . . cousin to me.”

“So you’re related?” asked Shiro, steadying his tone to sound nothing more than politely inquisitive.  He had no reason to be relieved, he told himself. No reason to pry. It was only that - that for cousins, the two young men were as opposite as fire and ice.  Nothing more.

“Not in the least,” answered Lotor, lips curling.  Perhaps it was meant to come off as amusement. To Shiro, it seemed more akin to disdain.  ”His mother was a trusted general by my father’s side, until she turned against the family.  Krolia, the Defector, is what they call her, now. But all the same, it’s thanks to her that he has a right to any sort of title,”

After a moment, the Lord added humorlessly, “His father, whoever he was, was of clearly less than noble blood. But Keith has shown his talents and loyalty, over the years, so his place under our roof and by my side is well-earned.”

Keith was ahead, and his shoulders were slumped. As Lotor talked, he drifted with Red towards the side of the road, as if he wanted to make himself less visible.  But there was nowhere to hide - aside from blades of prairie grass.

A ripple of anger hit Shiro in the chest.

And then he remembered.   _Krolia._

“By his mother, you mean the Krolia, the Blade Who Wouldn’t Bend?” he asked, “She was the best warrior this side of the land.  I worshipped her, as a child. She’s a hero.”

Ahead, in the midday sun, he could see Keith’s head tilt curiously.

Lotor’s smile smoothed out into a rigid line. “Well, she’s long dead for her crimes,” he replied, dismissing the topic.

But the Captain pressed on, “Is it a crime to stay true to one’s principles?  Stories say she was given an order she couldn’t carry out. So she left her Lord’s service.”

“Is that not the very definition of betrayal?” challenged Lotor.

“I’d say it’s the very definition of integrity.”

Lotor’s voice, by then, had a chill to it. “Be that as it may, it won’t do to dim the mood with digging up old skeletons. Acxa! Ride ahead and tell the servants to prepare food and lodging for our . . . special type of company. Tell me, _gentlemen_ \- do you like your meat _rare?”_

Lotor’s yellow eyes narrowed at Shiro.  The question was clearly meant for him, only, as an underhanded jab.

Not taking the bait, Shiro’s words rang cool and steady. “We live on military rations and nights on the ground.  Anything you offer would be a luxury. My Lord.”

After a varga or so, smoke could be seen wafting up from the craggy landscape, and the band was informed by Lotor that they were nearing his estate. There was to be a feast that night, in light of their company.

Eventually, Shiro watched Keith fall behind, the vampire’s focus on Atlas’s white coat.  The younger man wanted to say something, and Shiro waited patiently until he was ready.

“So,” he rasped hesitantly, “Thanks, I guess.”

Thanking him for telling the truth.  He didn’t deserve it, Shiro wanted to say.

But after pausing in a moment of contemplation, Shiro settled on: “I know people who’d jump through fire for a thanks from you.”

His words got Keith to snap his face up, with eyes so wide, they held the universe.

“Through fire?”

Shiro shook his head, every bit as stunned as the other.  “Just yesterday, I didn’t believe them.”

Keith’s brows furrowed in disbelief. “Then how am I supposed to believe you, today?”

Without allowing Shiro an answer, he rode ahead to catch up with the others, pulling his black hood over his raven hair.

But then, for the briefest moment, Shiro saw the man turn his head slightly, and look back.  Upon seeing that Shiro had not taken his gaze off of him, he sharply ducked his head and rode even farther out of sight in front of the wagon.

Shiro could have sworn on his one remaining arm that he saw a blush dusting the other’s face, again.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on two VERY IMPORTANT works. One is a Polish work of historical fiction "With Fire and Sword" / "Ogniem i Mieczem" By Henryk Sienkiewicz. The movie is amazing, and is set in Eastern Europe in the mid-1600s.
> 
> The other is the Sheith fanfic "Hunger, Unsated" by tearose11 who is an AMAZING author and inspired me with her tropes using fantasy vampire/werewolf A/B/O dynamics. PLEASE check it out.


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